RMJ 222 September 25

THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 25 ● Houston, vs Cubs

When I awoke yesterday, I knew we could win our division if we won our game and the Pirates lost theirs.  As it turned out, we both lost. They don’t play today, so our fate is in our hands. I knew there would be no scoreboard-watching; no divided attention.

To be honest, I fear the Pirates. They are no match for us in terms of talent and experience, but they are fearless. They have everything to gain and nothing to lose.

When I was pitching, I felt the same way about The Big Red Machine. If I beat them — which I did several times — it was a feather in my cap. If they beat me, it was no big deal, because they were expected to win every time they took the field.

If we make the playoffs, the spikes will be on the other foot.

The Braves, confident and poised as they are, will feel some pressure because they will be so heavily favored. I think we will have a psychological advantage if we can temper our adrenaline rush with a fair amount of poise. 

But first things first:

 

Cubby came by at 1:50. I took my tuna sandwich with me, just as I did yesterday. It bothered me a little to repeat the steps of a losing day, but I wasn’t too upset, because the sandwich was on wheat bread today — it was on a croissant yesterday.

Yesterday, I bladed before leaving. Today, I planned to work out at the ballpark. These small changes should more than offset the tuna.

I did make sure to hang my street clothes on the left side of my locker, and put my underwear on top of my shoes. No sense tempting fate.

 

Gerry came up while I was on the treadmill, and he told me he wanted me and my coaching staff back next year. I was happy to break the monotony of running in place and join him in the coaches’ locker room for the announcement.

The meeting was brief. All of the guys seemed happy about it. I thanked them for their valuable assistance, and got back to the jogging.

 

Alan Truex came by, and we had a nice chat — sort of a season-in-review session for the Sunday Chronicle. He went through a laundry list of milestones, and I commented on each.

It seems this magical whirlwind of a season has swept him into the vortex; he was quite animated. Seemed to be honestly enjoying talking baseball.

I hope this apparent change has had a ripple effect in the community. Judging by last night’s crowd, I think it might.

In the upper deck in center field, a large, black tarp was covering something that would be unveiled if we won. In the locker room, plastic was rolled up over the tops of the lockers, so that it could be unrolled to cover them when the bubbly started spewing.

Everything was set — including Mike Hampton, tonight’s starting pitcher. Mike was in the training room an hour before game time. He looked across the hall into my office, and he caught me picking my nose.

“Pick a winner,” he said.

“I did, and it’s you,” I replied.

Making sure I had my Big Bamboo talisman in my left-rear pocket, I headed for the dugout about five minutes earlier than normal. When I met with the umpires to exchange lineup cards, Cubs manager Jim Riggleman said, “Good luck, man. You’ve done a helluva job.”

There is nothing more gratifying than praise from your peers. I really appreciated his comment, and I thought briefly about how difficult it must have been for him when the Cubs lost their first 14 games. To be way behind that soon, and never really catch up, makes for a long season.

Jim is a classy guy, and the Cubs have been perceptive-enough not to blame the bad start on him. I still think the Cubs have some problems, but they are not that far away from having a good team.

 

The fans came out again: 36,000 of them. They cheered loudly during the introductions, and they gave Hamp an ovation when he retired the Cubs 1-2-3 in the first. In our half of the inning, Biggio walked, and when the count went 2-0 on Bell, a discernable hum emanated from the crowd. Bell hit the next pitch to short for a double play. Bagwell struck out.

“That’s all right,” I told Bill. “When I was pitching, I wasn’t that thrilled about a big early lead. I preferred to pitch in a close game, and get some runs near the end.”

“I hear you,” he said. “I like it that way, too.”

I looked up in the stands and saw Judy, Ryan, Ashley, Sharon, Chris, Craig, Chris, and Julia. Most of them were wearing their best luau gear.

The second inning was uneventful.

In the third, we scored on a walk and a two-out double by Biggio.

We scored again in the fourth, when Bagwell led off with a double and came home on a sacrifice fly by Gonzo.

Hampton was cruising along, mixing his pitches, getting outs with ease until the Cubs broke the spell with a run in the seventh. But the seventh was to be our inning — the breakthrough inning of the entire season.

Spiers and Gutierrez drew walks off Jeremy González to get it started. González is a talented rookie, but the crowd was starting to get to him. He tried to get the next pitch in there, but Ausmus was ready, and he drove it to left-center. I knew it was an extra-base hit, and I was hoping it would go out.

“Get up!” I yelled. It did, and we were up 5-1.

Late runs: just what Bill and I talked about in the first inning.

But we weren’t finished yet.

Hampton popped out. Biggio drew a walk. Bidge got beaned by González his last time up. Luckily it was a glancing blow, and he was not injured. Instead, he was even more possessed with passion than ever. He stole second, and then made three attempts to steal third. Derek fouled off the first two; the third one was in the dirt, and Bidge was safe.

Derek followed with a double to right. Bagwell was hit by a slow curve. Gonzo got an infield hit. Hidalgo walked to force in a run. Spiers singled to plate another. The crowd was delirious.

We had an 8-1 lead. The division title was six outs away.

Hampton put down the Cubs in the eighth, and Biggio and Bagwell gave the crowd one last hurrah: Bidge walked, and Baggy tripled him home.

The last play of the game was a shot into the hole at short by Sammy Sosa. Gutierrez dove and snagged it, threw from his knees, and got him by an eyelash.

Hampton was right: I picked a winner. The players streamed onto the field — all except Tony Eusebio and Tank Howard, who paused momentarily to dump a bucket of ice water on my head.

Because I knew we were going to win, I had a little time to think about what I wanted to do. I decided to shake hands with the coaches first; that what I was doing when I got doused. The baptismal moment made me feel like it was important to be with the players first.

But by the time I got to the pileup around second base, it was pandemonium. Fans were rushing down onto the field, and the players started peeling off and heading for the locker room.

I went over to Judy, Julia, and Ryan for hugs and kisses, and then back to the dugout for a radio interview with Jim Deshaies. Fans were racing pell-mell around the diamond. Silver and gold confetti fell like snow from the top of the Dome. A gaggle of fans lined up in front of the dugout, facing me. They were bug-eyed, stricken with joy.

 

I told Deshaies that I had been thinking about my father a lot the last few innings, when I knew were going to win. I was also thinking about my 32 years with the team, and how few special moments like this we have had; about the fans — especially those who have cheered, mostly in vain, for so many years. And how, because of the long and largely-uninspiring history of the team, there has never been a World Series in the Dome.

I imagined what was going on in front of me to be the final moment, the World Series Championship celebration. I know it is a long shot, but that is my desire.

We have won the long war, but the most-intense battles are still ahead. I was already thinking about the Braves.

 

When I got back to the locker room, it was effervescing. As I was being interviewed by Bill Brown, José Lima poured champagne on my head. I was glad I had my hat and glasses on. Even though my vision became blurred, the sting of the bubbly didn’t reach my eyes, and the stickiness of the grape didn’t muck my hair. At least, not at first.

As I stepped down from the platform, Tank lifted my cap and poured the champagne on my head. Someone handed me a bottle, and Gerry came up and hugged me. Then he grabbed the bottle out of my hand and took a couple of swigs.

I spotted Biggio across the room, smoking a cigar the same way he had run the bases earlier. An inch-long ember glowed amidst the spewing smoke. In the midst of the billowing cloud, I saw his perfect white teeth flashing from one ear to the other. One arm was raised high with a bottle of bubbly. I started in his direction, and he met me with a leaping hug.

Ain’t nothing halfway about Biggio.

Everywhere I turned, there were reporters. I must have answered the question How do you feel right now? twenty times, but there was no good answer. I could only say that there was a warmth in here, and point to my heart.

I explained that it wasn’t exuberance or excitement that I felt; it was a more-peaceful feeling — a deep satisfaction.

The players were passing out Cuban cigars. I took a handful to my desk, and when I returned, most of the players were going back out to the field.

The plan was to have the players take a victory lap and high-five the fans. But so many of the fans had gone berserk — tearing out the flower beds in the outfield, climbing the screen behind home plate, running the bases, sliding into home, piling all over one another — that it was touch-and-go as to whether we should go back out.

It took about half-an-hour to clear the field, and when I got back out there, Bagwell was making the rounds, pressing as much flesh as he possibly could.

I saw Tal Smith, and we hugged each other. I would like to have a picture of that; he is even more reserved by nature than I am.

Ryan came running across the field to meet me. His eyes were sparkling, and he was out of breath. I picked him up and hugged him.

I later learned that he had been down on the field with the mob, and he had run all the way around several times. When they started herding the fans out the wagon gate in center field, he was worried that he would be separated from Judy. Mike Magnante spotted him at that moment and took him to the dugout.

Before it was over, I had hugged just about every player, and most of the front-office people.

Drayton asked me if I had imagined this when I took the job.

“You better believe it,” I said. “I knew it wouldn’t be easy, but I did imagine it. That’s why I took the job. And the job is not over yet.”

When the tumult finally played out, I joined the coaches for a glass of wine. Throughout the celebration, I had not tasted a drop of champagne; I prefer to bathe in white grapes and drink the red. The merlot went down easily.

We talked a little about the season, and then for some unknown reason, we got to talking about Chuckie Carr. Among Gerry, Barry, Mac, and the voluble Perfessor, we killed another half-hour speculating on Chuckie’s potential value next year.

I don’t know how in the world we got off on that subject, but it finally dawned on me that this was a sign that it was time to go home.

I stopped by my office to pick up a victory cigar, and I found a note from Jim Riggleman:

 

Congratulations. You and your staff did a great job. Good luck in the playoffs.

           

It was 12:45 when I arrived home, and Judy was on the couch, half asleep.

“I tried to wait up,” she said. “But I barely made it.”

Judy is such a great partner — such a wonderful wife. She had been up since 6 a.m., and she had to get up at 6 again this morning. But when I went outside to smoke my cigar and have one more glass of wine, she joined me. She told me about what had happened to Ryan after the game, and then she told me a story that brought a tear to my eye.

Before the game, a check for $10,000 was delivered to the M.D. Anderson Hospital for cancer research. A cancer patient about Ryan’s age threw out the first ball, and he could only get it halfway home, using all his strength.

The force of the effort landed him on his keister, and Ash ran out to help him up and to sign the ball for him.

During the game, he was sitting right in front of Judy. When we returned to the field, Biggio spotted the boy and came over to sign his baseball.

“You’re my hero,” the boy said.

“No, you’re my hero,” said Biggio.